


The Future To Come

by queencuba



Series: The Jonsa Agenda [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonsa babies - Freeform, bran is still weird as fuck, but he serves the ultimate jonse purpose, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queencuba/pseuds/queencuba
Summary: "He had seen all the failed promises in Sansa’s life, and though Brandon Stark was more than himself, coexisting as the Three-Eyed-Raven, he loved his sister. He wanted her to find peace. He could not promise her a life free of pain, because he had seen the pain yet to come for her, but he saw her joy, too. He saw her reign, a golden age for the North, followed by her eldest daughter, Lya, whose reign would be a happy one as well. He saw all her children, the lives they’d live..."Times are dark, but Bran has seen the future. He is sure there could be nothing brighter.





	The Future To Come

Brandon Stark took the same shuddering breath he always did when his hand touched the wood of a Weirwood tree. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, the world went dark, and then he was standing again. He’d spend forever warging into different places in time if only to feel his legs once more. He took a deep breath, and a burn in the chest followed that felt a lot like clarity. There was freshly fallen snow, the prickle of hair on his head, a welcome shiver, and the smell of old pine. Bran was home.

Soft music played in the otherwise quiet Godswood. The night was dark, two parallel lines of torches lit a single path, and dressed in white was Sansa. She wore a grey cloak, a direwolf stitched onto the fur. She held another one in her hands, and Bran was positive he had never seen his sister smile the way she did now. Her cheeks were blushed, her hair down with no braids, no ornaments. She was simply herself, and a single word came to mind: radiant.

This was her wedding day, and as he turned he saw Jon, cloak-less, waiting. His eyes were wide, lips parted. There was a sway in his legs, and Tormund Giantsbane gave Jon’s arm a good natured slap. Bran had never seem Jon’s lips quirk past a soft smirk, but he was grinning now, his eyes crinkled.

The ceremony was a Northern one, full of prayers to the old gods. Jon knelt before Sansa, his knees sinking in the snow, but his smile remained. Sansa unfurled the Stark cloak in her arms, and rested the fur on Jon’s shoulders.

“I, Sansa Stark, Queen In The North, cloak you under my name and my protection. Rise, husband, as Jon of house Stark.”

When he stood, Jon’s hands gently took Sansa’s face, his thumbs smoothing over her cheeks as he leaned close. Their noses touched for a moment, their eyes meeting before the space between their lips closed, and Bran had seen only love.

With a deep breath, Bran’s eyes rolled back, then he was in his chair again. He was in the Godswood, but years before his vision. Crunching snow sounded behind him, and Bran turned. His legs could not feel the cold, yet heavy furs laid across his lap. Sansa had insisted, she had even stitched a new tunic for him herself, laden with direwolves along the sides. Her eyes still held a slight mist to them every time she saw him. Bran didn’t blame her. Of all the Starks, his sister had perhaps suffered the most in the wars that came since Robert Baratheon’s fateful Winterfell visit.

Her eyes were misted now, as she smiled at him and said how grateful she was to have him back home. Bran nodded, a soft smirk on his lips.

“You looked beautiful on your wedding day.”

Sansa stilled. Her pink cheeks drained in color, her Tully eyes, mother’s eyes, fell to her hands. Her breath quickened, and Bran had not heard what she had said before she turned and stalked out of the Godswood. Bran watched her leave patiently. She would understand some day.

* * *

 

“And which one of you were a marksman at ten?”

Bran spun. The feeling of nearly losing his footing was a delightful thing to remember.

The gruff voice choked his throat like a gloved hand from the dark. Grief was a terrible thief, but if it meant that Bran could hear his father’s voice again, he’d gladly keep his doors unlocked, his throat bare and vulnerable.

Winterfell’s courtyard was just as he remembered: crowded and loud. His brothers had taught him how to shoot an arrow here, and he supposed that they would not look as they did here. Their young faces, unscarred, unbeared, and smiling would be distant memories. His brothers would be men now, but Jon isn’t his brother, and Robb is dead. That gloved hand from the dark choked his throat once more. He looked up to where he knew his father would be, two floors above, watching from a safe distance. His mother would be there, too, an encouraging smile on her lips.

“Pay no mind to your brothers, Brie, you’re doing just fine.”

But, his mother never said that. Years had passed since this day, but he remembered very clearly every detail. He remembered the time he woke, what he ate for breakfast, the tunic he had worn and how it would be the very same one he’d leave Winterfell in. He remembered how cold the wind had been that day, and the feeling of his brother’s hand ruffling his hair.

 _Cousin_ , Bran corrected. Jon is his _cousin_.

Looking closely, he saw why he’d been so easily deceived. This man could very easily be Lord Eddard Stark by those who did not know or remember his face, but there were scars there that Bran’s father did not have. A long, curving red mark from forehead to below the eye; a beard too full to be father’s, hair much curlier, a face just slightly softer.

This was not father, but Jon.

The furs Jon wore looked eerily like Eddard’s. His stance was the same as Eddard’s: back tall, shoulders straight, face just slightly downcast, and eyes that see everything. Beside him, a wolf crown on top of unbraided hair, was Sansa. Bran noticed the lack of a crown on Jon.

Bran turned back to the courtyard where two boys, who could have fooled Bran to be Robb and Jon, showed their sister how to hold a bow. To the side were two older girls, laughing. One had the Targaryen looks that Jon did not; she seemed slower to laugh than her siblings.

“Don’t worry Brie, you can’t be worse than father,” the dark haired sister called out.

“Don’t let him hear you say that, Lya,” the silver haired girl said quietly, but a smile quirked at her lips.

“Lighten up, Amy,” the redheaded boy said as turned his younger sister’s shoulders, and helped raise her elbow.

She couldn’t have been anymore than ten, and as she shook her brother’s hands off, she looked the picture of Arya. “Will everyone shut it so I can aim this arrow?”

Bran looked back to where Jon and Sansa watched with smiles on their faces. Sansa leaned over and whispered something that had made Jon laugh.

Bran’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he was back in the main hall of Winterfell, surrounded by those who survived the battle against the white walkers. Daenerys stood with her cup raised. She roused the crowd to cheers as she spoke of Arya, and that there was now only the last war left to win.

Bran did not pay her any mind. She called herself the dragon queen, but he knew she would be queen of nothing; queen of ashes. Somehow, in a crowded table, she managed to sit alone.

Bran’s attention was on the other end, where Jon sat close to Sansa, being coaxed to drink his wine in one sitting. Sansa beamed up, encouraging Jon. In that moment, Sansa smiled in the same way she would when they marry in the Godswood. Bran began to turn away.

“Leaving so soon?” Samwell Tarly bent down and asked.

Bran liked Samwell. He’d write history very well one day.

Bran smiled. “I’ve seen all I needed to.”

* * *

 

Years passed until the quiet evening in the Godswood came, as Bran knew would happen. The torch lit Godswood had never looked more beautiful, more serene. The small gathering, the soft violins, the freshly fallen snow was the perfect backdrop for this historic marriage.

Bran watched Sansa fiddle with the Stark cloak she would drape over Jon in the coming moments. Bran saw their children, and their children's children. He saw the line of Queens and Kings of winter to come, the wars won by Stark men and women. Bran had seen everything that would come from this joining, and he knew that as cruel fate could be, it always, eventually, came together marvelously. Different roads lead to the same castle, Bran heard a faraway voice say.

“I did say you looked beautiful on your wedding day,” Bran said knowingly.

Sansa looked at him, startled and blinking rapidly. Her mouth gaped, failing miserably to find her words. The violins began to play.

“I believe that is your queue,” Bran smiled softly. “You will be happy Sansa,” Bran promised.

He had seen all the failed promises in Sansa’s life, and though Brandon Stark was more than himself, coexisting as the Three-Eyed-Raven, he loved his sister. He wanted her to find peace. He could not promise her a life free of pain, because he had seen the pain yet to come for her, but he saw her joy, too. He saw her reign, a golden age for the North, followed by her eldest daughter, Lya, whose reign would be a happy one as well. He saw all her children, the lives they’d live.

Bran saw her life with Jon, a marriage built brick by brick, as Catelyn and Eddard had built theirs.


End file.
